Upstream the rivers of time
by Ashandarei
Summary: Strange and mysterious are the paths of life. Few paths are as strange as those of Harry Potter, so what happens when, instead of him walking them alone, he has his grandparents to lead him? AU story
1. Karma

D/C – Harry Potter and related characters and articles do not, under any circumstance, belong to me.

Before anyone gets any idea, the pairings will follow canon, with the exception of Oc/Oc.

Upstream the rivers of time

Prologue:

Harry Potter was in an utterly miserable mood that murky mid-November eve as he retreated to the quiet solitude that his room within the tent he was sharing with his two companions offered. Admittedly, if anyone had reasons to be so completely miserable, it definitely was Harry.

By the prophecy made before Harry had even come to this world, he was, supposedly the only one with even half a chance of vanquishing the earlier mentioned dark lord. In short, he was a marked man, with little choice in his own destiny.

Then, there was the ever growing list of lost or dead, Muggle and wizard alike, and the war that had definitely put a damper on everyone's mood.

And, let's not forget the little fact that so far all he had managed to achieve in the course of his crusade, he 'inherited' from, sadly late as of that June, professor Albus Wulfric Percival Brian Dumbledore, that consisted of finding and disposing of the Horcruxes, pieces of Voldemort's soul scattered in various objects, was running into dead ends.

Rufus Scrimgeour, ex-Chief of Auror department, presently the Minister of Magic, was also making the matters difficult. Harry's second adamant refusal to involve himself into the petty politics of ministry, and play out the role of Scrimegour's poster-boy, had placed him as the 'enemy of the ministry. So, the minister had now made it one of his personal goals, nearly as imperative as fighting Voldemort and his army of followers and dark creatures, to harass Harry and his friends, inadvertently, or at least seemingly so, getting himself into Harry's way every second step.

The fact that he was daily exposed to his companions, and best friends, bickering over every trifle, was not helping either. Yet, deep down, the truth was, all of those reasons combined played only a tenth, if that much, of Harry's misery.

The true, major reason for Harry's depression was the absence of a certain red-haired, willful young witch that had inadvertently stolen his heart. The fact that he knew she would wait for him - she had told him that herself when they parted after Bill and Fleur's wedding - did nothing to ease up the longing that positively set his teeth on edge.

To, at least temporarily, decrease his anguish, he, as he thought about those days, only a few months prior, but that felt like an eternity ago, when the two of them were enjoying eachothers presence.

Alas, as fortune had it, he could not even begin to daydream before his scar exploded in pain, of the likes he could only compare to Cruciatus curse. Voldemort was not simply ecstatic; his emotions struck Harry through the mental link like a hurricane. And the next instant it stopped. So did the flame of Harry's room lantern. So did the entire universe.

After an eternity of sensation, that could only be described as vacuumed (but the same vacuumed feeling that Apparition felt like) nowhere, Harry found himself sunbathing on the shore of a vast, shallow river, next to himself.

The bizarreness of his current situation didn't seem to give Harry any hard time. In a weird sense, he felt that on some level, something similar to this was occurring his entire life.

And then, his other self spoke, in a voice that was simultaneously entirely Harry's and, in a weird way, that of Luna Lovegood, with a trace of Hermione.

"The rivers of time have stopped flowing." It was a simple statement, devoid of any emotion. "They have to be restarted at some previous point of history."

Although his mind was far from clear, Harry could not find it in himself to worry about it. Actually, he could not find it within himself to worry about anything. Thus, he responded to the obscure comment made by the other him with a simple question of: "why?"

The other Harry seamed to perfectly understand what was actually meant by that question, yet, evidently, he did not hold the answer to it. Instead, he shrugged, and offered, "Karma? How should I know? I'm not even real. Everything here is not real. It is simply an image your conscious mind conjured because of it's incapability to comprehend certain concepts."

Harry blinked.

"So, in essence, you are here because it was the only way I could understand what has happened."

He did not wait for an answer, since he knew none would come.

As Harry started towards the image of stopped flows of time his mind conjured, his astral awareness warned him.

"You cannot meddle with Faith, mind you. So, nothing that directly involves either you or Him."

Harry just nodded, and gazed into the 'water'. It took him only a second to realize that it was not the water that symbolized the time. It was the flow of time. The perceivable time was actually within the sand. Millions upon billions of tiny events that gently shaped the flow. He did not worry about making a wrong choice. After all, he had all the time in the universe at disposal, to make a decision. He chuckled at his own bad pun, as he stepped upon water. It held him.

It was difficult to express how long he had been making the decision. Essentially, it was less than a thousandth of a thousandth particle of a second, and yet, during it he had witnessed over forty years of history, for every single grain of sand carried within itself its event, and from Harry's vantage point, he could interpret any grain he set his mind onto.

Finally, he drew his arm near the end of the flows of time, beyond which nothing existed yet. And picked up a single grain of sand from amongst uncountable number of others, and without removing his arm from the liquid metaphor he moved it at a point twenty-something years prior.

The very instant that the grain of sand touched the riverbed, the waters of time retreated completely, and before gravitation, if the said force even applied at that place beyond time and space, could pull onto Harry, the waters came back in unstoppable, irresistible rush. The moment it came to the repositioned event, one Harry Potter vanished.

-.-.-.-.-

Early January 1972.

Emmerick Thirstlebush had once again blotched on his Potion for his practical exam required for him to finally finish his studies of magical medicine. It wasn't that Emmerick was a bad potionmaker. Quite the contrary, actually. He had been among the top of the grade at potions back at Hogwarts. But for some reason he could not seem to be capable of producing the Strengthening Solutions above the most basic level.

He sighed dejectedly. It seamed he was up for another year of pointless lectures that he had, for the most part, already memorized by heart.

He was just about to get rid of his failed attempt at potion when his desk partner doubled over, made a rasping gasp, and then promptly fainted right onto Emmerick, whom in the process of trying to remain on his feat managed to knock down the failed potion onto both of them.

It later became the infamous anecdote of how, completely by accident, the remedy for Aracofie, the microorganisms that attacked directly the neural centers responsible for magic, leaving the infected dying from extremely painful allergic reactions, was found.

Nearly seven years later, in late November 1978, an advanced version of that very potion was used successfully to save life of one Loreal Potter.

-.-.-.-.-

November the first, 1981.

Albus Dumbledore had just picked up the small baby boy from the hands of his dear friend, and gamekeeper of Hogwarths, Rubeus Hagrid, with intention of placing him on the doorstep of number four private drive, where he could be taken into care of by the boy's aunt Petunia and her family, when a sudden pop announced a new arrival.

Esteban Potter was a calm man by nature, but once his temper was ignited, it was best to get as far away from him as possible. His temper was running at all times high at that moment, and the would-be recipient of his wrath was not hard to guess.

"I suggest you to handle me my grandson Dumbledore, before my patience runs out, at which point I'll take him by force." That threat, spoken in a tone cold enough to startle most men, would be laughable if spoken by any save this man. The reason for it was that it was well and wide known fact that no one ever, not once in his hundred and sixty three years, had managed to defeat the aged exWarlock in a duel, not even the twenty five years younger Headmaster of Hogwarts who was considered by most to be the most powerful living wizard.

"As it is, I'm only a shadow's width far from having both you and Hagrid shipped off to Azkaban for kidnapping." His tone never rose, not even for a bit, yet there was no mistaking the searing supernova hot fury in the old-man's voice.

Albus Dumbledore nearly managed to keep his face impassive. Still, a careful observer could notice a painfully well suppressed flinch, and the slightly furrowed brow revealing deep worry. Less could be said for Minerva McGonagall and Hagrid. They both displayed visible shock, no little fear, and, in Minerva's case, outrage.

Dumbledore mouthed to respond, but the seething Esteban cut him off before he could even start.

"I know perfectly well what your intentions were Dumbledore, and believe me, the fact that they were good is the only thing that saves you. The problem I find are not your intentions, but your judgment, which, as usual, is abysmal. I warned you more than once, but it seams it bounced off your thick skull. You are exceptionally intelligent, I give you that, but it does nothing against your proneness for misjudging! Now, hand me over my grandson!"

There was no helping it now; no amount of self-control could stop Albus Dumbledore from flinching at his berating. Oh, he remembered well the older man's rants about his lack of good judgment, and grudgingly, he had to accept them as true. He often remembered his own mother saying the same thing. She often murmured to herself that Abey had managed to scoop up Alby's share of good judgment, but Alby balanced it out by scooping a better piece of his brother's intended intelligence.

He admitted defeat to himself. He knew that if he wanted so, the patriarch of Potter family could, and would, make hell for his only son's child. And, he had to admit that he had no right to attempt to take young Harry from his sole family by patriarchal line. Still, even though he knew all of this, his fear for the child's safety stopped him from acting. He stood unmoving, and undecided.

A new fire lit dangerously in the eyes of Esteban.

"Do you honestly believe that your concern for MY grandson's wellbeing surpasses my own, Albus?" and, before any of the three could react, Harry soared out of Dumbledore's arms, right to his grandfather. To add to it, Esteban's wand mysteriously quickly appeared in his left hand, his right being occupied by Harry, and a blinding flash, followed by several more spells, surged towards the three.

After the few minutes the blinding wave had passed and only Albus and Esteban were standing, Dumbledore unnaturally stiff.

"You have about a month to relocate the wards onto Rose and Andrew's house. Healers promise they will be restored back to their full health by then." and with those final words, Esteban Potter turned to leave. He stopped dead in his tracks, at the sight of great motorcycle. 'What foolishness had the poor boy got into now?' he wondered.

His voice now absolutely calm and neutral, he added, before he Disapparated, "I'll pay you a visit in the morning, Albus; we still have much to discuss."

-.-.-.-.-

Not surprisingly, the uncomfortable feeling of Apparition woke up little Harry, but the child did not cry. His big emerald eyes were firmly fixed upon his grandfather's face and his tiny face was scrunched up in an expression that was, more or less, mirroring Esteban's. Deep weariness was decidedly inappropriate for a slightly-more-than-one-year-old's face, and even as weary, sorrowful, and angry as he himself was feeling, Esteban's face melted in a smile.

It was simply the way life was. You could not control it. Although not cheerful in the least, as far from cheerful as a matter of fact, those thoughts eased up the wailing burden of Esteban's emotions.

Not more than a few seconds after they apparated into the mansion, they were greeted by quite tall, bald, Arabian man with a graying goatee, and slightly pointy ears.

"Master Esteban," he greeted the venerable man, with a slight bow of his head. He reached for the bundle of blankets that held the youngest member of Potter blood.

"If I might take young Master Henry..."

"Harry. His mother requested we call him Harry." Esteban interrupted his servant and old friend softly, in a sad voice as he handed his grandson over. He was answered by a soft, understanding smile.

After Harry was safely tucked in the arms of the one person Esteban trusted above all, he stopped his old friend from speaking further and heaved a heavy sigh.

"Ahab, how is Loreal?"

Ahab's face went blank, but his voice revealed worry as he answered.

"I daresay that the news of Master James' and Mistress Lily's deaths fell heavy on her already weakened body."

New pain flashed upon Esteban's worn down face, but he chose not to comment upon it. What he did do was start walking at a brisk pace toward the mansion's master bedroom. Wordlessly, Ahab matched his pace. When they finally traversed the third set of stairs, they found themselves at the foyer of the vast suit of rooms. Directly in front of them stood wide open set of double doors leading into the bedroom.

Raised into half-sitting position by pillows beneath her was woman whose face, despite her many years and abysmal grief, showed great beauty. Also in spite of her years was her long, just slightly grayed, jet-black hair.

At the sight of her husband, or rather, since her glasses were upon the bed-table, at the realization of her husband's presence, Loreal made a feeble attempt to collect herself, but it lasted only until Esteban kneeled beside her, and took her hand. She clung to him as wave upon wave of grief washed, yet again through her weakened body.

"Oh, Esteban..." were just about the only coherent words she could utter at that point. And, although he tried his best, none of the words of comfort Esteban uttered to her helped her any. What did stop her onslaught of tears was soft, sad word of a baby boy.

"Grema"

At that moment, it was as if time itself had frozen for Loreal, as she had become aware of the bundle in Ahab's arms. Without any need for communication, Ahab approached the bed, and angled Harry, so that his grandmother could see his face.

Sleepy, almond shaped, emerald-green eyes met puffy, blood-shot, hazel ones, and at that moment, a new strength and a new resolve entered Loreal. No words were necessary as she took her grandson from Ahab.

Due to various tidbit information from the canon (DD being chief warlock, warlock's convention, etc...) I took the freedom to assume that Warlock is a title for a member of Wizengamont, or other wizardly (and witching) court.

A/N Special tanks go to my most exceptional beta Gryffinpuff, who made this story posible.


	2. Esteban's crusade

Although the previous couple of days were at the very top of his list of the most stressful, dreadful days of his, more than century-and-half, long life, Esteban Potter awoke on the early morning of November the second, feeling more at ease than he did in over three years.

James' and Lily's deaths still pained him immeasurably, yes, there was no denying that, yet he knew that neither of the two of them would want either him, or anyone else they cared for, to drown themselves in grief. They chose the kind of life they led well aware of all the risks, and persisted in fighting for what they believed in, even when times had become so desperate that their own death was, if not certain, than extremely probable. They had died to give little Hen... little Harry, and countless other children, a better world to grow up in, and that thought soothed Esteban's weary hearth.

The sight that met him as he exited the small study, that connected to the master bedroom, where Ahab and Tifty had set him up a narrow, yet comfortable guest bed, soothed the rest of sadness to only slight sense of melancholy on the outskirts of his mind.

Sometime during the night, little Harry managed to get from beside his grandmother, to plopped sideways across her. In a way, it was strange seeing his grandson sleeping comfortably on Loreal, since his father, some... could it really be twenty-one years ago?... refused, from he was two months old, to go to sleep anyway other than alone in his little crib. He had even developed his very own special, 'I-want-to-go-to-sleep' wail, that he continuously repeated until he was placed into the crib and left alone.

As he ventured down the stairs, he was met by strangely entertaining sight. Ahab and Tifty, their aged house elf, were in the middle of one of their usual heated arguments, more than probably caused by Tifty claiming that Ahab was once again doing what was supposed to be his, Tifty's, job. Of to the side, on the special, custom-made chair, an ancient goblin was calmly sipping a cup of something that faintly smelled of phosphorus, and with an unconcealed amusement observed the shouting-spar before him. And then, he raised his gaze to Esteban and with slightly feral grin, winked to him.

"What are they fighting about this time?" he asked in half-tired-half-bemused tone. The problem with having Ahab, a Djin, around was that the other magical sentients, by custom, had to speak to him in ancient Tian, which was the archlanguage of all magical creatures. Thus, he never knew exactly what were the two of them fighting about at any given time, unless there was someone around, like Gomnob in this case, to translate it to him.

"As always, it is quite difficult to follow the course of their fight, since they jump from point to point like crazed leprechauns on too much scotch. But, the gist of it is as I understand, the point of which of them will get the honor of taking care of your grandson." Although Gomnob was old, even for a goblin, his voice was always clear and strong. And after that answer, his face became completely serious, and the undertone of levity was lost from his voice. "My condolences for Lily and James, they were wonderful young people."

"Thank you. I have to point out to you, though, that your sentiments were expressed in a very ungoblinlike manner" Esteban answered him with a melancholic smile. Then he turned to the arguing pair. He started to say something, to break up the argument, when he noticed an unobtrusive movement at the far end of the room. His eyes immediately alighted, as a most marvelous idea struck him.

"Sestra, will you please join us" he called out, making sure he was heard by his pair of servants.

Almost guiltily, a truly tiny house elf abandoned cleaning the dust, and approached him, all the time wringing the edge of her toga-like towel garment. For a house elf, it had surprisingly human features. It's tan was somewhat fairer than that of the other house elves, bespeaking it's youth. It's luminous brown eyes were somewhat angular, and speckled with gold, and it's nose was not so much pointy as it was delicate. Even it's ears and chin were, all things considered, very well shaped.

"Master Esteban called?" Her gaze was downward pointed, as she asked in voice that strongly resembled higher pitches of panpipes.

"Sestra, how would you like to change masters?" He asked her in soft, calming tone.

His words were met with double cries. Tifty, ran up, and scooped Sestra in his arms ignoring all propriethood, and started to wail at the prospect of his granddaughter being removed from serving the Potter family. Likewise, Ahab let all his proper demeanor slide off, as he began to shout in Tian, something that without the need for interpreter, Esteban understood was far from complimenting.

Amid that chaos, although her eyes were welling up in tears, Sestra stood stoically, her eyes still downward.

"If master thinks I is not being suitable to serve him, I is going to oblige. But if master is asking about my thinking on the option, I is not liking it at all."

"Even if the master you would be serving is still member of this family?" Esteban asked in official tone.

It took but a moment for Sestra to understand the meaning behind his words. Her eyes wondered in astonishment, and she began to splutter in surprise at the prospect.

"But to entrust it to someone so young as I... I is meaning... I...I is not understanding..."

Her surprise though, was nothing compared to the astonishment of Tifty, who looked about ready to faint, and Ahab who was standing stock still, his mouth wide agape, and his skin taking up pale purplish tint.

"Than, it is settled. I'll pass you on to Harry this evening" And with those words, he dismissed all three of his servants, and turned his complete attention to Gomnob.

"I guess that there was some special reason of your visitation?"

"As a matter of fact, yes. Someone in the ministry made an attempt to freeze all holdings of your late son and his family. I already made contacts and arranged a private investigation. My assessment is that, save for young Henry's…" Gomnob's business voice was brisk, and seethed with officiallity and competence.

"Harry's" Esteban corrected him with grim expression on his face.

"Please, Esteban, I'm talking officially in these matters…"

"That is his official name, for all reasons and purposes, save magical rituals, or presentings before the queen, as per his mother's legal request. I doubt that anyone not directly connected to this household is even aware of his full name."

"I stand corrected. Now, can I carry on?" There was a certain unpleasant edge in Gomnob's voice. "…As I was saying, it is my assessment of the situation that this breach would have caused liquidation of all their assets, save for Harry's trust fund. To prevent it, I took liberty to speed up the inheritance process, and placed all of the endangered holdings directly under Harry's immediate trust contract, to be gained at the time when his legal guardians grant it to him, or, in the case that guardians are in any way rendered incapable of making such decision, at the time he legally request them."

With every word coming out of Gomnob's mouth, Esteban's face became grimmer, and grimmer. By the time his accountant finished his summarization, his face was locked in frightful scowl.

"Thank you for bringing this up to me. Your actions have quite certainly prevented a catastrophe, and for that, feel free to take twenty percent up on your regular bonus this year."

The goblin's weathered face showed no trace of emotion, but his eyes held a predatory, self satisfied glint.

"I trust you will keep me informed of the progress of the investigation? Good! Than the only other matter left to discuss is finding some promising young goblin to manage Harry's business affairs, under your expert guidance of course.

Gomnob gave him a shrewd gaze.

"You are making sure he is completely self-sufficient, within any possible outcome. Why?"

"That is an interesting observation, what gave you such idea?" Esteban responded mildly, with a question of his own.

"Please, Esteban, I taught you these games, as I did your father before you, and aided in education of his father. Don't play dumb and evasive with me." There was a reproving sketchiness in ancient goblin's voice, and his eyes narrowed, as he gazed at Esteban.

"Sorry. You are correct, of course…" ("naturally") "I am preparing my grandson for independence. The reason is not difficult to fathom, though. I am old, my old friend, and I feel my age with every fiber of my being. I could live for another thirty years, or I could expire as soon as tomorrow, there is no way of knowing which of those two extremes is closer. But in the case it is the later one, do you really think Loreal would outlive me by more than perhaps a month? You know what would happen if we died before Harry turned twenty one. All of this, and with those words I entail everything my family created since it came into the magical world, and even before that, in the times when we were minor muggle nobility during the times of first kingdoms post Roman Empire, would fall apart, or in the best case get devaluated to only a fraction of what it is worth today. I want to make sure that if that indeed gets to be the case, Harry feels the least amount of damage; what has happened a few nights ago, will make his life very difficult, as it is… I've been ranting, haven't I?"

His answer was a toothed grin.

"I know just a perfect goblin. She'll fit in your little scheme like a glove, and I don't even have to teach her business."

"I was not aware that there were any female goblins in the business." Esteban's voice was mildly surprised, and moderately curious.

"Only clan Sherubb, lets their females into the business, and even there, only those of Mabungda's lair."

"That was the fifth queen of Ch'gang alliance, wasn't she?"

"K'somb alliance, actually. Same time frame, wrong area."

"Ah, yes, now I remember. She was the one that managed the accords of Balkans. The hidden gold mines, right?"

"Precisely. We are in a chunk of luck considering her. She is actually a renegade from her family, and since no other clan would take her, your offer would work on mutual benefit."

"And what do you gain from it?"

"Employment for my Feedrac, naturally."

"Sentimentality? From you Gomnob?" Now Esteban was really surprised.

The aged Goblin gave him almost whimsical smirk, and mockingly innocent shrug of shoulders for answer.

"Well, thank you, both for the aid you have already given me, and the helping with the Harry situation. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have an appointment to make." Slowly recovering Esteban nodded curtly to Gomnob, and left him to continue with his drink. He traversed the other two sets of stairs briskly, and paused in the atrium where Ahab awaited him, a thick, impressive, of almost black dark blue hue, high collared traveling cloak with Potter family sigil embroidered in silver over the hearth, already prepared for Esteban's outing.

As Ahab fussed over his appearance, Esteban lightly raped his fingers over an old portrait that depicted lightly snoring, thin, tall, middle-aged man with a mop of thick, graying unruly hair.

"Whaaa… Oh, it's you 'Ban, whadayou want?" The suddenly awakened portrait mumbled, as he sleepily squinted at Esteban.

"Very articulate, Jasper." Esteban answered dryly. "I was wondering if you could find someone back in ministry who could inform Hogwarts headmaster that I'll be paying him a visit."

"Consider it done!" Now completely awakened portrait of late H. Jasper L. I. I. F. Potter (1220-1265) departed sideways thru his frame.

-.-.-.-.-

The argument was fierce, with Esteban Potter doing the arguing, and Albus Dumbledore trying, unsuccessfully, to save at least some grace.

"So, we have an understanding?" Esteban asked in detached, impersonal voice, which once was well known, and quite usually feared, in the courtrooms of Wizengamont.

"Yes, Esteban, we have an understanding. No need to beat me over the head with it. And, if you had paused in your 'presenting of the case' for a moment, we could have ended that discussion an hour ago." Although, such snippy comment was very unbecoming for a wizard of such stature, something in the older man always brought up the worst out of the headmaster of Hogwarts.

"It might have ended much sooner, but you would not have had all the data on what you would have been agreeing on to, now would you?" And, as it always had been, Esteban's hidden depths of bland cynism bet up Albuses sulkiness heads down.

"I give up. As usual, you win." Albus sighed in mocked defeat.

"I find your attempts at humor as lacking as your judgment, Albus, and I'm certain I'm not the only one."

Another sigh escaped the illustrious Headmaster, this one for real.

"It shall be as you say, Esteban. I'll inform you as soon as I get any news about young mister Black. How do you intend to return to Wizengamont?"

"The last time I checked, I was still lord, and retain a seat at council of lords, in muggle world, and the ministry is still under direct jurisdiction of the crown, although the crown had not exercised those rights in the last three hundred something years. I believe her majesty is entitled to more direct overview of the happenings here in the wizarding world than our… ahem… esteemed minister is allowing to dribble back to the Prime-minister of the muggle government, and I'm almost certain that the prime-ministers never mention _anything_ they find about this world."

"You are positively vile, Esteban." Contrary to the words he uttered, Albuses face was graced with a cynical little smirk.

"Every politician is, my dear boy, I thought you'd have learned that by now." Came bland answer from Esteban's impassive face. Another point up for the old man; Albus depreciatively wondered why did he even try anymore.

-.-.-.-.-

Barthemius Crouch was absolutely fuming as he hurried to the courtroom five, for a trial of one Sirius Orion Black, whom he himself had signed an order to be sent to Azkaban directly, for his role as an accomplice to the murders of James and Lily Potter, and murdering one Peter Pettigrew and twelve mugles.

Holding the trial was a waste of resources, since the evidences of the guilt were overwhelming, but some idiot decided to undermine his authority and call forth this trial. Well, one thing was for certain, and that was that when he found out just who that idiot was, pits of Hades would seam preferable to said person, that the wraith of Crouch.

As he burst into the courtroom, he did not even observe the customary procedures of identifying himself, and proving he was who he appeared to be.

"Under whose authority is this trial called!"

Quite unexpectedly, his furious rant was cut short by cold, impassionate, deep voice answering.

"I did. And if you don't give proof that you indeed belong here, young man, you better prepare for a long time in detention, for what you are doing now is breaching, and you have no les than eight wands pointed up at you, and the only thing stopping them from firing is my voice."

Two sudden realizations hit Barthemius. First was how close he was at the moment at being hospitalized, and the other was just who exactly was responsible for this so called trial. Neither of them managed to improve his mood; quite the contrary. He quickly produced his patronus and proceeded to deal with the old man who had the audacity to challenge him.

In icy tone of voice he spoke up.

"I can understand your whish to make a big, public condemnation out of this Mr. Potter, but your grief is not a reason to waste ministry resources. Furthermore, you might have presided this court once, but at this point in time you have no authority whatsoever…"

"Two wrong, out of four statements. You have let your ambition rot away your common sense Crouch. It is truth that mine, or anyone's else grief is reason for wasting resources, although many waste them for far worse reasons. It is also truth that I once presided this court. Everything else you have just spoken, though, along with your reasoning, is pure nonsense. You cannot understand my whish of making any kind of condemnation here, for there is none. Secondly, if you had kept more attention to things happening right beneath your, oh so carefully trimmed, mustache, you would have known that as a liaison to the crown, I have all sorts of authority in the ministry, including calling forth a trial. Now, if you cannot behave accordingly, you better leave now, for I have had just about enough of your pomposity."

There was not a trace of anything but dry professionalism in Esteban's voice, but Barty flinched as if he were slapped by the venerable man before him.

-.-.-.-.-

The funeral was a stately affair, marred only by the fact that Lily's parents were still incapable of leaving St. Mungos, and thus could not be present.

Not many people were present, considering the popularity of the couple, but Esteban, and even more so Loreal had made it abundantly clear that the funeral was not to be made into some big political or media parade, and especially, that they will not tolerate anyone showing up only so he could gawk at their grandson.

It still surprised Esteban how much better had Loreal become in the few short days since the tragedy that left their grandson in their care. Although her legs still could not support her, and in all truth probably never again would, all the other traces of weakness brought on by her illness disappeared completely from her bearing. She sat on in perfect, almost royal dignity, with baby Harry in her arms, and although her melancholy was apparent, she neither wept, nor gave any other outward appearance that she was in sorrow.

In the front row, besides the Potters and their assorted staff, only eight more people sat: five men, two women, and a baby: James's two best friends, Headmaster of Hogwarts and his deputy; the Longbottom family; and Mrs. Longbottom's father, who was also an old family friend to the Potters. Besides the longstanding friendship there were few more reasons for Longbottoms to attend at front row. Mrs. Alice Longbottom just happened to be Lily's best friend from school, and if circumstances had been slightly different, it might just have been their own funeral.

AN: This chapter is in a way dedicated to Little Morgsi because her review shoved me that I had chaffed for far too long in updating. My problems with my ex beta should not have made me delay for so long. Thus, I apologise for the delay, and for the roughness of the next few chapters untill I find a new beta. I'll try to make sure that the next chapter comes out by the end of the month, ideally, within two weeks. I also apologise for multitude of plotbunnies I'll be (and already am) releasing. Some of them will end up in a stew; the rest will remain hopping around. It is because I'm still not entirely certain where it'll all end, and I like to lay as much as I can during the way, so I'm not forced to improvise later on.


	3. Two babies are a company

Although the reception was caused by very grave and sorrowful event, namely, the laying to rest of late Lily and James Potter, two woman could not help but smile ruefully as they observed two slightly-older-than-fifteen-months babies. Harry and Neville took to each other like ducks to water. Since the moment they were placed next one next to the other, they contently played and gurgled together.

"A bit unusual to see children of that age to get along so well. And they barely know each other an hour or two." Mused Loreal Potter to her 'colleague' in child watching.

"Mrs. Potter, they know each other practically their whole lives. Neville was bourn around 10 pm. on July the 30th, and Harry an hour past midnight into the 31st. And, Lily and I usually found ourselves being together during our pregnancies, while our husbands were out battling evil. I'd say that that makes them pretty well acquainted." Answered Alice ruefully.

"Oh, my. Now that is what one would colloquially refer to 'a lifelong friendship'"

"My mother always did say that you have love for colloquialisms."

Their chatting was suddenly broken off by a delighted squeal and splashing sounds. One of the two of them, either Harry or Neville, managed a pretty advanced feet of accidental magic. Somehow, he managed to liquefy two inches of the floor of their playpen and now they happily splashed in the muck.

Before either of the women could move a soft pop occurred between the boys. Without missing a beat, Sestra dodged a muckball, snapped her fingers to banish the rest of the muck, and levitated the two babies a foot from the ground. Ever since being put into Harry's service, the young house elf lost most of her timidity, and now exuded an air of quiet competence.

"If you whish, mistress Longbottom, I can make young master Neville clean and presentable along with Master Harry." Her piping voice was clear and serious.

"Well, if you really don't mind, dear. While you're at it, I'll pop back home to bring some clean clothes for him."

"Oh, I is not minding at all. I love working with them. It is most exciting." While her voice was still calm, Sestra's face brightened up at the prospect of working with yet another baby. She gently lowered both of the younglings who found being levitated very fun. With barely a touch, she disappeared with her charges.

"She is quite an extraordinary hose elf." Commented Alice.

"Oh, dear, you have no idea how extraordinary she is. She was always so skilled, and dedicated, but now, since we passed her on to Harry, she is free of all sorts of restrictions, since her master is too young to make any sorts of decisions that would affect her. She is improvising and doing things house elves are usually frowned upon for doing, for all she's worth. She is probably the most progressive house elf in the world." Loreal's expression dithered somewhere between wonderment and amusement.

All Alice could do in answer was shake head in wonder. She went to her husband to inform him she would be making a brief voyage back to their home, and the reasons for it. He chuckled and kissed her gently, before he returned to mingling.

Loreal was snapped out of the reverie over unusual house elves and babies by gentle cough. Dereck, Alice's father had taken up the chair his daughter had occupied. Loreal smiled sadly at her godson. Although she was nearly twice his age, Dereck Charleston looked to be at least ten years older than her. He was sickly as a child, and that had never improved, no matter how many treatments he got.

"Who would guess that both my child and grandchild would play along with yours, eh aunt Loreal?" He spoke softly and purposefully.

"Who could guess indeed? But, such is life; it moves along the paths no one can see until he is already trodding upon them…" She shrugged, her expressive eyes gazing at nothing, before finally coming down to the remnants of the playpen "…And no matter what we wish, it continues moving along." She added with a bittersweet smile.

"It certainly does." He softly murmured an agreement "I do not know how long I will be capable of moving along with it, but something in my bones tells me it will not be much longer now. No matter, I lived a moderately nice life, and will die happy, so it will not be so bad. Will you look after my progeny aunt Loreal?" his voice was neither sad nor resigned. As was mostly the case with him, he was pensive.

"That is assuming that I will outlive you, my young godson." Loreal jibed him, as she did often during his life.

"Aunt Loreal, I know of mountains that are more susceptible to the affects of time, than you." He was quick to banter back.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

In the days after the reception, a trend was set, one that would prove to be fateful. Since both the boys would become fussy when they did not get an opportunity to play together at least once a day, Longbottoms became frequent visitors to the Potters. The reverse was, sadly, not possible since Loreal's legs could not support her. Nonetheless, Potters did pay a visit or two to the Longbottom household.

It happened on the Wednesday of the last week of November. Alice was with Neville at the Potters, when a band of Deatheaters led by Rabastan Lestrange tried to assault the mansion. The extensive wards that were a part of the estates since the times the of wizarding clans proved to be enough to slow down the assailants enough that Esteban and Alice, alongside Harry's godfather Sirius Black, did not have to hold out for more than ten - fifteen minutes before the help arrived. Among the Deatheaters arrested on the spot was Barthemious Crouch Jr.

Longbottom residence, sadly, had only basic wards, and only Frank was there to defend it. Caught off guard, he didn't even manage to send for help, before they were on him. Nonetheless, he managed to down one of his assailants, before the other three got him. He was already cruciated into insanity, when Alice, Sirius and a couple of ministry Aurors, informed by deatheaters captured at the Potters' residence, arrived and overpowered the deateaters led by Sirus' cousin Belatrix Black-Lestrange. During the battle, Sirus was forced to severe his cousin's wand arm to stop her from casting Avada Kedavra.

The very next evening, true to his predictions, Derreck's hearth didn't seam to be able to take any more sorrow and gave way; he passed away quietly in his bed.

Probably the only thing things that held Alice from completely falling apart at the double tragedy in the following days were her son, and Loreal's constant calming presence. When offered, although it was more along the lines of order, by Frank's mother Augusta for her and Neville to come and live with her, Alice flatly refused. She claimed that although she was honored at the offer, she wanted to raise her child in the manner that she and Frank intended to from the beginning, and that would simply not be possible if they were surrounded by all those relatives. She did not mentioned that she did not trust Augusta Longbottom with a job of helping raise a child. She returned to the modest house she and Frank had bought for themselves, and retired from active Auror duty. She was assigned overseeing the training of fresh Auror recruits.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

The Evans were making a nice and quick recovery that, by the time Frank Longbottom was deemed safe to be visited by his wife, they only had to remain for one more night for observations. Taking up the opportunity, Loreal firmly overruled Alice's protests, and in the guise of going to present their grandson to his other set of grandparents, accompanied Alice for support. Neville was left in Esteban's care, along with Harry.

As they entered the door, Harry and Neville were once again cheerfully levitated by Sestra. Esteban had to hide a chuckle. The children were not the only ones being entertained by the game, if the little house elf's benevolent smile was anything to go by.

Despite the healers orders to remain in beds, Rose Evans, was standing to welcome them. Although rather short, she exuded a kind of energy and strength that was difficult to pinpoint. The few times he had visited them left Esteban under the impression that she was as formidable as she was kind.

"Oh my." She smiled as she watched her grandson doing slow loops a foot and a half from the ground, giggling and gurgling happily. "I don't know what I expected of the first view of my grandson, but this certainly is not it. Do the magical babies do that often? Because Lily never did."

Although the question was directed at the Esteban, it was Setra that answered, emerging from behind him.

"Oh, no mistress, they is not doing it themselves. I is levitating them since they like being levitated, mistress. If you is being upset by it I is going to stop."

Rose was a little startled at the sight of the little creature, but her sight never wavered for a second. "No, no dear. If they like it, keep on doing it. Just make sure that they do not spend all of their time in the air, their bodies will need some down to earth exercise. And, I'm no one's mistress, my name is Rose." That lest sentence, she uttered in firm voice that brooked no arguments.

The little house elf was not cowed, though. She rose her serious little face, and looked determinedly in Rose's blue eyes.

"I is not able to adhere to that. You is master Harry's grandmother and guardian. It is not being proper for me to be calling you by your name. I is maybe doing things differently than traditional for house elves because I is belonging to master Harry, but I is not shameless."

"Belong? Esteban…" there was outraged fury in Rose's entire baring, but her husband silenced with a tired comment.

"Oh do cool down, dear. You cannot expect all the humans to behave the same, so why would you expect it from all intelligent creatures. Do you honestly think our way of life is such absolute perfection, that every creation of god should follow it?" Although there was reprimand in his deep voice, eyes of Andrew Evans revealed suppressed laughter.

Rose sighed in defeat. She knew her husband was right. She was honest enough with herself to admit that months of isolation, odd treatments, and generally nothing productive to do to chase away dark thought the death of her daughter gave her had made her positively growling. Forcibly she forced down her anxiety and her temper, and concentrated on positive things. The sight of two happy babies contently giggling in the air, made it surprisingly easy.

To consider Harry Potter a happy four year old would be quite accurate. To say that he had a perfect life would be a blatant fantasy. Even though he was blessed by loving grandparents, uncles and aunt figure, a brother-like playmate, efficient and quite ingenious personal house elf, and quite large inheritance, he was still plagued by the nightmares of the night he had lost his parents. He learned enough from eavesdropping to know that they had been betrayed by one of their best friends, a person they had trusted implicitly, and it resulted in them being killed by the darkest, most inhuman wizard to have graced this poor world in quite a while. Unfortunately, the more he found out about the tragedy of his second Halloween, the worse his nightmares would get. Now, he regularly heard his mother pleading for his life, and, somehow, he eerily knew that it was not a fabrication of his over imaginative mind, but real, solid memory.

When he explained why he had cried at night to his grandma Rose, she started finding him activities to redirect his impressionable young mind. He had absolutely no talent for many of the junior art classes sponsored in their town, the exceptions being sketching and dancing. Actually, he enjoyed them so much, that he more or less spent all of his time not spent with Neville or family activities in, almost single-minded, pursuit of his new hobbies.

Seeing one of his sketches of the Evans' house interior had sent Sirius into reminiscence about some old map he and his best friends', meaning Remus and Harry's father James, had in Hogwarts. Apparently, the map showed every location in the school, with instructions of how to open the hidden doors and passages, as well as what to look out for. The map's best feature, though, was it's apparent ability to show every human, animal, ghost or other creature inhabiting the Hogwarts. When asked to show the map, Sirius made a sly, mysterious smirk, and told Harry in his most dramatic voice: "All in it's good time young grasshopper."

When Harry told him with all the seriousness and eloquence of a four year old that he knew Sirius was wacky, but that that particular comment was absolutely idiotic, it had sent a nearby sitting Remus into hysterical fit. His laughter was contagious, so, very soon the whole house, including Sirius, was laughing uproariously.

After they had settled down, Sirius and Remus had finally explained that the map was planted where the true heir to the, as Sirius had dubbed it, proud mischief making and chaos inflicting tradition of Marauders could find it and use to start the new reign of pranking. No matter how much Neville and Harry attempted, that was all the information he would divulge, and all Remus would do was smile a content little smile at any attempt of wheedling information out of him, and change the subject.

AN: I know this chapter ended up somewhat on the short side, but my inspiration for it seamed to dry out somewhere halfway. Still looking for a beta.


	4. Ups and downs of being 6

Harry Potter liked spending time with his grandfather Esteban at the ministry of magic. There was always something interesting happening there.

Except for now.

Christmas ball at the ministry was opulent, ostentatious, and utterly devoid of anything even resembling amusement. Or at least nothing a mischievous six years old would consider amusement. The only people his age he had seen thus far came from the stuffiest, haughtiest, most bigoted blood purist families he knew. And he was forced into promising not to prank anyone that eve.

All in all, it promised to be one of the most boring experiences of his short life. All he could do was stick to his grandfather, and listen to him talk laws and politics. He made himself listen diligently because his previous experience with magical populace had thought him that wizarding world at large expected him to be all-wise and all-powerful, and while he could do nothing about the later, and, just about as much about the former, it would be prudent to at least appear knowledgeable.

So, he spent an hour and a half suffering thru the conversations he could barely, or not at all, understand, and frequent gawking at his scar.

And then he saw them. A middle aged, slightly balding man was lightly swaying a slight girl, who could not have been much younger then Harry himself, upon a dance podium. Both the man and his daughter were red-headed, but there was something particularly catching at the girl's particular shade of red hair.

He politely excused himself from his grandfather, and approached the pair. He tapped the men on the back and asked in his politest tone if he could cut in, that is if the lady would not mind.

Arthur Weasley got a surprise of his life as the young boy asked him if he could dance with his daughter. It was a pleasant surprise though. The boy was exquisitely courteous, but he did not appear to be stuffy, although it was a bit difficult to determine with a child that young. Still, as a father of six boys, his instincts told him that the child was to be trusted.

He gave the youth a friendly smile, and then turned to his pride and joy.

"What do you think Spark? Would it be OK, if I left you to dance with this lad, and go spin a few circles with your mother?" It was a low blow perhaps, but he knew his daughter, and he knew that there was no chance that she would refuse after he put it to her like that. Predictably, she agreed, all the time watching curiously at the boy who asked to dance with her.

As her father left them, and the boy followed him with his gaze, Ginny caught sight of a rather famous scar emerging from behind the boy's messed up bangs.

"Y…You…You are Harry Potter!" she exclaimed dumbstruck.

There was a rather saddened look in his expressive eyes for a moment, and then it vanished, and they began twinkling merrily as he grinned at her.

"Yep, but don't hold it against me!"

Without any though, Ginny started giggling at this, rather twins-like answer.

"I have to warn you, I'm not much of a dancer." She told him shyly.

"Tell you the truth, neither am I, but as long as we are having fun, who cares?"

Ginny's face lit up in a grin.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

School sounded like a nice sort of thing to Harry, and he was generally rather excited at the opportunity to experience the vaunted joys of education.

If not for the fact that Aunt Alice decided to enroll Neville along with Harry to the local school, a few blocks from Harry's grandparent's house, Harry would have died out from boredom after the first fifteen minutes. As it was, the two six year olds spent most of their classes playing a tic-tac-toe tournament. It went to their credit that they had not been caught unawares once, and without any hesitation gave correct answers to any question that their teacher gave them. It was not as if the questions were difficult anyways - there was nothing particularly profound in the first grade lessons.

They were accosted for it a week later by an annoying girl, a daughter of the pair of well respected dentists that lived few blocks away.

Her tirade about flaunting their prior education in front of those who were less fortunate then them was cut off by Neville's cold remark.

"So, it's all right and peachy if you do it, but not anyone else? Grow up Granger, you're not the center of the world." After which he had simply turned his back to her and started walking down the lane to Mr. and Mrs. Evans' house.

"How da…" Started outraged girl, but she was cut off by furious Harry.

"When you loose one or both of your parents, then come talk to either of us, and tell us how lucky we are, otherwise just keep your mouth shut. No one wants to listen to you, anyway." He snarled at her, before he too turned his back to her, and ran to catch up with Neville.

"You know, that was very rude. The fact that she was too, does not excuse our lack of manners."

"Mate, you have spent entirely too much time with mine grandmothers, and yours too." Harry gave his near-brother a lopsided grin.

Then he became serious, even forceful. "Besides, she was acting like a bully. She might not beat up on others, but she still acted like one. You know how that goes with me…"

Neville definitely knew.

Andrew Evans was an easygoing man, and his even tempered, and friendly and jovial nature was perfectly matched to his wife's fiery demeanor. The one time he lost his temper was when his grandson Dudley, the son of his elder daughter, started hitting his much smaller cousin.

Dudley received a through spanking on the spot, and then, Andrew got on the business of chewing out his daughter until she broke out in tears. Him, Rose and little Harry had left the house of Dursleys promptly afterwards. The image of his grandpa in rage was vividly imprinted in Harry's mind, and the impromptu lecture on bullies he received afterwards was so firmly imprinted upon him that he could repeat it verbatim any time, be it day or night.

Since that day, any indication of bullying in his presence had sent Harry up the wall.

"Still, mate that is not an excuse. For you particularly. You are, like it or not, a celebrity. If you go into flames at snotty behavior, all you will ever achieve is to become a bad joke."

"You are unwholesomely grown up for our age Neville." Harry answered him in disgusted voice.

Neville only shrugged.

"Someone has to keep you on your toes. Last one to the house is dragon dung!" As he was making the challenge, Neville had already bolted.

It didn't take long for Harry to catch up to him though, and they merrily raced down the street, with Harry, inevitably, winning. For a child so small, he could run as fast as wind.

And the next day at the school, a surprise in the way of very contrite Hermione expected them.

"I want to apologize for yesterday. What I said and did was really rude…" By the tone of her voice, and apprehensive expression upon her face, and… Actually, by her whole bearing, it was easy to deduce that she was very sincere, but also unaccustomed to apologizing to anyone.

"Yes, it was truly inexcusable…" Hermione's face fell at Neville's level tone, and inexpressive face.

"…But the fact that you had realized it is so, is enough for me. I forgive you, and while, we're at that, I hope you can ac…"

"No, mate, you have nothing to apologize for. You were somewhat abrasive, but that is as far as it went. I on the other hand had been truly uncouth, and said some tings I had no business saying. I'll accept your apology, Hermione, if you accept mine."

Those events set of something of a precedent for the future schooling of the three. Harry, more often then Neville, although not by any significant difference, would get in trouble for this and that reason, Hermione would rant at them after school, they would have a row, and the next day, or the next week if the row was truly heated, they would apologize to each other.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

For probably the first time in his life, Harry was at a complete and utter loss at what to do with himself. He was grounded and while that particular predicament was by no means unusual for him, the severe lack of things for him to do was. All the books he had in the room were either read so many times it was ridiculous, or were so boring they were impossible to read, uncle Sirius had, for the umpteenth time, filched his comics stash, all his toys were back at the mansion, and just that morning Sestra had cleaned up his room so even that was out. All he had left to busy himself with were his sketching pad and pencil – and he lacked an inspiration to sketch.

He wasn't deluding himself to think that he had any perceivable art talent; what he had was a whole lot of determination and a heck of a lot of practice that resulted in respectable skill. And working with his pad and pencil never failed to strike some deep peace in his usually restless soul.

His eyes flew around the room ceaselessly seeking, trying to find something - anything - to spark up that something within him that he got while sketching. But there was nothing. Not on the first sweep, not on the twentieth. He almost hurled his pad at a wall in frustration, but at the last moment opted to replace his beloved pad with the first thing he could grab with his free hand. It just happened to be one of the small tomes collecting his previous sketches his adoptive uncle Remus had bound for him. With a weary sigh he rose to retrieve it. If he did it really slowly, he figured he could waste at least half a minute.

As he picked it up his eyes fell upon the sketch of the girl he had danced with the past Christmas. It was his second to last attempt to work the sketch with ink. As all other attempts, it was neither here nor there some lines were good, others sloppy, ink smeared on some parts; but overall he figured he did a half decent job with the hair at least, using three different kinds of red ink and, on impulse a bit of his spelled golden one.

He tried to remember the girl's name. He thought it was something than –iny, but for the love of Merlin and the first Harold, he could not recall how it went. He sighed in frustration. He had had fun that evening, actually having someone his own age interested in the dance and everything in his upbringing as he understood it almost demanded from him to remember such details as the name of the lady he had danced with. It of course did not occur to him that the same social manners displayed and described by his grandparents could not apply in entirety to someone as young as him.

All the while an idea slowly hatched within his mind. Almost without any conscious direction he had begun to draw outlines upon a fresh piece of paper.

By the time dinner rolled around he was not even half done.

In the end, it took him something over three days to get it just as he wanted it, and by that time Sestra, with her usual quiet competence, had managed to secure both the address and the name of the recipient of the work.


End file.
